One Writer Girl
Chapter Two
Beckett couldn't settle herself comfortably onto the couch. She tossed and turned, tizzy with anticipation. She occupied her mind, or at least attempted to do so, by jumping from her seated position to perform menial task every minute or so. First, she noticed a sudden aching dryness to her throat which demanded meandering to the kitchen for a glass of water. Her thirst satisfied, she set about tidying her apartment. It wasn't messy per se, there were some clothes strewn slightly out of order from late nights and early mornings at the precinct. Most of them ended up flung into her dirty laundry basket, she'd have to get on to that sometime soon. She considered starting a load now, immediately talking herself out of it when she realised she really couldn't be bothered. It wasn't because the noise from the machine would contrast with Castle's soft – but strong – voice as he read to her. That certainly wasn't the real reason.
She continued to nest, rearranging trinkets and absentmindedly dusting her bookshelves. She really couldn't find it in her to sit still. If she sat, she would think, and if she thought…Well, there was no telling where they would end up. It would probably come across as inappropriate if she straddled Castle the moment he walked through her door. She needed to stop thinking about it. The story, she was excited about the story – that was all. It wasn't about inviting the man she something-ed over to her apartment late at night. Not at all. She managed to stop short of actually rearranging her furniture, settling for pacing. Pacing was good. Exercise was important.
Maybe she needed a glass of warm milk? How the hell was she this wound up just because Castle was coming over? It wasn't like he'd never visited before… It was like the first time she'd called and just barely stopped short of begging him to come though. There was that…
Best not to think about it. Damn that milk was taking a while to heat up. She tapped her fingers impatiently on the countertop before growling and resuming pacing. She needed an outlet for this nervous energy. At that, an image of ah, Castle helping her exercise sprung to mind. She snorted, like thinking about that was going to help her calm down. The story, the story, the story, she chanted to herself over and over again. That's what it had been about after all, she had a genuine thirst for the story that only Castle could satisfy. Only Castle's books could satisfy. Damn it.
She really needed to get all these thoughts out of her system before the man himself showed up on her doorstep. No sooner had that thought reverberated round her mind then a resounding knock was clanging through the room. Super. Castle never failed to be the master of impeccable timing.
If there was one thing Beckett had learnt in her years as a police officer – her lifetime of being a woman, for that matter – she had a formidable poker face. She plastered it on, opening the door with a soft, completely unaffected, smile.
X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X
Castle's greeting died on his lips at the sight of the woman before him. Breathtaking. She simply was. She didn't need a sexy dress or killer heels. Her, in all her soft, casual glory was more than enough. She was the kind of beauty every woman secretly hated, completely unassuming and utterly radiant. Best of all, she wanted him to read to her. He was the luckiest man in the world. He didn't even need to touch her to know that (granted, the knowledge didn't diminish the wanting to touch her in any capacity). He was human after all – she clearly was some otherworldly angel sent to torture him with her untouchable splendour.
Also, her hair was wet. He thought he'd heard a slosh of water during their phone call.
"Detective Beckett, did you call me from the bathtub?" he husked, choking on the last word like it was unfamiliar to his tongue.
"Wouldn't be the first time," she smirked, a teasing glint in her eye as she twirled a thick, damp strand of hair through her fingers. Castle vaguely remembered that there was some breathing thing he was supposed to be doing. Apparently, gawking at Beckett like a dumbstruck teenager took precedence over the menial technicalities of the human condition.
His hand rose without his permission (yet, his damn traitorous body forget to breathe when he wasn't expressly ordering it to do so? Clearly his body was failing him. Perhaps he should seek medical help? Mental help? Might be closer to the truth…) His completely independent fingers grasped a strand of Beckett's hair of their own volition. He tucked the wayward hair gently behind her ear, smiling at her in a manner he hoped could be construed as abashed and not dangerously predatory.
X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X
Oh. Castle's fingers were tangled in her hair and her poker face was melting. Not slipping, melting, in that ice-cream on a hot summers day, wicked witch in the Wizard of Oz kind of way. Fantastic. At least her sarcasm hadn't left her. There was that.
She shifted away from him slightly. She needed distance. Before she closed the distance and mauled the poor man's face. Distance was perspective. His current proximity was definitely messing with that. It's not like she'd lured him over with the overt forethought of seduction. She couldn't deny that ever since the invitation had slipped unbidden – okay, totally bidden – from her lips it had been the wild undercurrent consuming her mind. The worst part was, she knew that it wouldn't be hard to seduce him. If anything, the ravenous look in his eyes just reminded her that he was in a somewhat constant state of resisting the urge to claim her as his own.
Whatever her fickle thoughts trenched to the surface of her mind, she had invited him here for a purpose and she intended to see that through. The story, she did her dandiest to refocus her attention on it.
"Come in," she gestured, trying to ignore the hurt that flitted across his face momentarily as she stepped away from his touch. It stung. She didn't want to hurt him. The brevity of it all crumpled her expression and he softened, lilting airily into the apartment like it was the most natural thing in the world. He planted himself on the sofa, considering for a moment before he clumsily swung his feet onto the coffee table, wordlessly making himself at home. She liked it, she wanted him to be comfortable in her house. He was her partner after all. He grinned ruefully. She considered chastising him, just for the sake of teasing but bit it back. He was making a statement, he was letting her moment of pulling away slide. This was what careful compromise looked like. She'd take it.
"Coffee?" she smiled. She'd just drunk at least a litre of milk. Still, she wanted to procrastinate a little before she ah, accidently sat just that little bit too close to Castle on the couch and let his voice lull her into contented oblivion. Nothing like delaying the inevitable just that little bit longer…
AN: Ah, so in this story Josh is dead/never existed/in Africa/secretly a woman/other... We all cool with that? Thought so…
FF net has swallowed all your beautiful reviews and won't let me look at/reply to them at this moment, so a big collective – thank you, you're all the best! – will have to suffice…